


Make Your Flowers Grow

by unwindmyself



Series: you understand me more than most and you let me try [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ballet, College Parties, Costume Parties & Masquerades, F/F, Family Fluff, Female Friendship, Genderqueer Character, Misandry, Musical References, Sisters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:01:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unwindmyself/pseuds/unwindmyself
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa and her family have just moved from the country and she's about to start at a new school, she and Margaery meet in dance class, Margaery takes it on herself to play guide and guardian.  It surprises no one that they quickly become inseparable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. other times I think that you think I'm endearing

Sansa’s just wallflowering, tying her slippers up and trying not to look _too_ deer-in-the-headlights about all of the other students milling about talking and stretching at the barre like they all must have done a thousand thousand times before, when suddenly a shadow falls over her.

“You must be the new student,” the shadow says.

“I – I’m sorry, should I sit somewhere else?” Sansa stammers, only belatedly looking up to match a face to the voice.  Usually that makes it easier to deal, but – this girl, good grief.  Sansa’s only ever seen hair that perfectly curled in magazines, and her eyes are so wide they look like they’re animated; there’s a scarf tied jauntily around her waist, tiny golden roses shine in her earlobes.  She’s possibly the most perfect example of everything Sansa has ever wanted to be that’s ever been in real life.

“Don’t worry, sweetling,” this girl says, lowering herself onto the bench gracefully.

Anxiously, then, Sansa pulls her knees into her chest, smiles at the girl – she can’t be more than a few years older, but she seems more of a woman than a girl, which thought causes Sansa immediately cringes at herself (it sounds like a dumb pop song, the kind she hasn’t listened to since she was practically a baby despite her siblings' teases) – and tries not to stare too much.

“Goodness, I don’t mean to startle you,” the pop song heroine says smoothly.  “Let’s start over, shall we?  I’m Margaery Tyrell.”

“Hi-i-i,” Sansa replies, her voice sounding _so_ tiny and _so_ lame.  “My name is, uhm, my name is Sansa.  Sansa Stark.  Uhm.  Yes.”

Margaery rests a hand on Sansa’s shoulder, smiling a frustratingly perfect smile.  “Don’t be nervous, Sansa,” she says.  “I only want to be friends, all right?”

“Why?” Sansa asks involuntarily, laughing a nervous laugh and inwardly cringing at herself for it.

“Why not?” Margaery murmurs, softening her smile.  “I know how hard it can be to move and find yourself suddenly without allies.”

Sansa chews her lip for a moment.  “I – I’m grateful, then,” she whispers.  “I’d like that.”

“ _Good_ ,” Margaery declares, rising to her feet and offering Sansa a hand up as well.

 

* * *

 

After class, Margaery catches Sansa by the wrist, grinning.  “Good form,” she enthuses, nodding slightly to the younger girl's feet as if there was a question about what that might have meant.  “You’ll be caught up in no time.”

“Thank you,” Sansa says, flushing and pulling her hair loose.

“Do you have a ride coming?” Margaery asks.  She barely waits for Sansa’s nod before rushing to add, “Call them, tell them I’m taking you to dinner and then I’ll have my brother come get us and drop you home.  I insist.”

“I start school in the morning,” Sansa frets.

“I’ve got school in the morning too,” Margaery assures.  “I’ll have you home at a decent hour, I promise.”

And just like that, Sansa finds herself in a booth at the nearest burger joint, surreptitiously tugging on her hand-knit leg warmers.

Once their meals have arrived, Margaery shakes her hair out and declares, “I want to hear absolutely everything about you.  Where you’re from, what your family’s like, _everything_.”“O-oh, I'm not that interesting,” Sansa demurs.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Margaery says, nodding at the younger girl so encouragingly she just _has_ to talk.

“I – well, I’m the second-oldest of five kids,” Sansa begins.  “Third-oldest of six if you count my cousin, he lives with us too, his mom was my dad’s sister but she’s dead and he’s basically always been part of the family.  Then I have an older brother and a little sister and two little brothers and – and we lived _way_ in the country, and my parents homeschooled us, but they aren’t doing that anymore now that we’ve moved here, and am I talking too much?”

Margaery giggles, reaching to pat Sansa’s hand.  “I don’t mind, sweets,” she says.  “It’s all quite interesting.  You mean you’ve really never been to proper school?”

“Never,” Sansa shakes her head.  “Is it going to be awful?  Gods, it’s going to be like _Mean Girls_ , isn’t it?”

“Not if I can help it,” Margaery promises.  “You're year... ten?”

“Year nine, actually,” Sansa corrects with a flush.

“Really?" Margaery asks, giggling but not unkindly.  “I would have figured you for older.”

“I get that a lot,” Sansa admits.  “Because I'm tall, usually.  It's funny, I've been getting mistaken for older for ages and my sister could still pass for being in primary school if she wanted.  It drives her mad.”

“How old is she really?" Margaery inquires.  “Aside from being younger, of course.”

“Not yet twelve,” Sansa says.

“Do you get on with her?”  Margaery punctuates her question with a long sip of her iced tea.

“Sometimes," Sansa replies.  “We have almost nothing in common, she's a complete tomboy and she adores giving me a hard time, but she's my sister.”  A _what can you do?_ shrug.  “I love her, even if sometimes I can't stand her.”

“I always wanted a sister,” Margaery muses.  “I've got three brothers, and they're all lovely, I've been quite lucky in them, but it's not quite the same, I imagine.”

“I used to wish I could trade Arya for a proper sister,” Sansa says sheepishly.  “I remember reading _Pride and Prejudice_ and envying Lizzy for having Jane, that sort of thing.  Quite silly of me, really.”

“If you're silly, so is every other child,” Margaery laughs.  “I think that when you have brothers and sisters, wishing they were different is inevitable.”

Sansa nods earnestly.  “Are your brothers older, younger?”

“Older, all of them,” Margaery says.  “Loras is closest, he's only two years ahead of me.”  She grins, seemingly struck with an idea.  “I'll have to introduce you two, he's a dear.  He does ballet, too, it's a family preoccupation.”

“That must be wonderful,” Sansa murmurs.  “To have someone to share it with!  My mum did ballroom when she was in school, but never seriously.”

“Wonderful and terrifying,” Margaery smirks.  “My gran used to dance professionally, and she's - well, I'm sure you'll meet her eventually, too.”  No more is to be said of that, it seems, and Sansa is plainly intrigued, but she doesn't press. 

“Do you have any tips for the nervous new girl?” she asks instead, fidgeting with her hair but feeling decidedly more comfortable by now.

“Don't worry about things,” Margaery says soothingly.  “It'll work out.  Hey, stick with me, I’ll look out for you.”  She pauses, then bursts out laughing (it’s absolutely _melodic_ ).  “I don’t mean to sound like a gangster film, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Sansa exclaims.  “You – you’d really do that?”

“I said I would, and I would,” Margaery shrugs.  “I like meeting other dancers I can actually stand, especially the really talented ones, and I think the world would be a better place if every new student had a fabulous fairy godmother, don’t you?”

All Sansa can really do is nod and feel glad that Margaery is too polite to mention how stupidly awed she must seem.


	2. and I don't usually notice people's eyes but

“ _There_ you are,” Margaery exclaims, finding Sansa flopped on the couch in the tiny lounge.  The studio is good about keeping things comfortable for their dancers, giving them places to rest between rehearsals; when the children’s classes are held, it’s the same lounge where the parents and nannies wait and chat.

“I – I’m just sitting here like normal,” Sansa mumbles, not meeting her friend's eyes.

“I thought you’d gone home already,” Margaery continues.  “You were out of the dressing room so quickly, I figured you must have had somewhere important to be.”

“No, not really,” Sansa says, leaning forward on her hands.  “There just – there wasn’t a point in lingering, that’s all.”

She’s being quite vague, and Margaery thinks to follow the line of her gaze in hopes of deciphering why.  And – _oh_.  Well, then.

Well, then?

Tuesday and Thursday nights after the contemporary class (it’s not quite Sansa’s thing and only marginally more Margaery’s, but they’re both of the mind that it’s good to expose yourself to a variety of styles if you can) the studio is rented out to a local burlesque troupe.  They’re amateurs, they all have day jobs as it were, and it’s halfway a social activity and halfway a dance practice, but they’re most of them pretty good.

(Though Loras and his boyfriend couldn’t have cared less about the sexy girlie aspect of it, they could appreciate the art of it, and they’d brought Margaery to one of their shows a few months back.  In her opinion, the sexy girlie aspect of it more than made up for getting dragged along on one of her big brother’s dates.)

Because it’s Sansa she’s talking to, sweet innocent little Sansa, Margaery is very careful not to sound too suggestive when she whispers, “Is there any one of them you’re watching in particular?”

And even though it wasn’t suggestive, Sansa turns bright red as she tries to form an answer.  “Not – no, I just.  I like watching them practice,” she murmurs sheepishly, like she hasn't even thought of any other reason to watch someone dance than the technique (she hasn't, at least consciously).  “I like seeing the things they do, their – styles, I suppose you’d say?”

In Margaery’s opinion, their styles range from coquettish to downright evocative, from playful to plain old seductive – that’s the point of burlesque, really, isn’t it?  Celebrating female sexuality and all that.  Somehow she can’t imagine that’s what Sansa means, so instead she clarifies, “The ways they dance.”

Well, different of the women do seem to come from different dance traditions.  None of them do a full striptease, though some get close; some of them are traditional burlesque through and through, fans and feathers and things, some of them tend toward something that’s almost the sort of contortionist acrobatics you’d find in a circus.  The woman Margaery was most taken with when she went, this olive-skinned, dark-eyed beauty who had practically been seducing the audience as she moved, did hers almost like a belly dancing routine.

“Uhm, yes,” Sansa agrees.  Margaery could swear she hasn’t seen her blink this whole time.  “It’s just so different from what we do, you know?  This whole other way of moving your body, this whole other way of –”

“Embracing your body,” Margaery supplies.  “Showing off on your own terms, for your own pleasure.”

“Yes,” Sansa breathes.  “Yes, exactly.  They’re so confident, the lot of them.”

That’s all she needs to say.  Shy little Sansa, with her bevy of dreams, it’s no wonder she’s so taken by the notion of this.  These women _are_ confident, they’re assertive and they’ve taken charge of themselves.  They’re women grown.  For someone who’s still trying to figure herself out, that sort of thing is intoxicating.

(And if Margaery, who went through a similar phase though _much_ earlier in life, has started to wonder exactly what figuring herself out might mean to younger girl, she doesn’t say anything about it, not in the slightest.)

They stay in the lounge through three of the women’s rehearsals, watching them drill sections of their routine over and over again; Sansa’s seemingly fascinated by their styles like she said, Margaery is unapologetically fascinated by other things entirely.   Her belly dancer (well, not _her_ belly dancer, but the one she’d liked) is the second to go, one of the others rewinding and replaying the same few measures of song for her to swivel her hips to until she's got it perfectly.

The women break before they move to the fourth number, and before they can do anything about it, one of them – a tall redhead – has approached them, all smirks.  “Been enjoying the show, dears?” she asks airily.

Panicking instantly, Sansa begins, “If, if you want us to go we can, we were just –”

“My brother is supposed to pick us up, but he’s running late,” Margaery jumps in, although she’s not sure the lie is necessary for anything more than Sansa’s comfort.

“Don’t worry,” the woman says, waving a hand dismissively.  “This must be the third time I’ve seen you sneaking to see us practice,” she continues, addressing Sansa directly, “But I take that to mean we’ve got a new fan, and we’re not going to turn those down.”

Too stunned to say anything, Sansa nods quickly; Margaery is just watching, all too amused.

“If you’re going to stick around,” the woman shrugs, “You might as well come in where you can get a proper view.”  This, of course, makes Sansa’s eyes go wide in terror.  “You’re in the ballet class, yeah?  Maybe you can give us tips on our form and all that.”

It’s sort of a joke, but it’s also a way to make Sansa feel a bit more comfortable, maybe, and for that Margaery wishes she could tell the woman thank you.

“And who knows, maybe you’ll fall in love with all this for true and we’ll have made a couple of recruits,” the woman laughs.  She heads for the door, beckons Sansa and Margaery to follow, turns that smile on Sansa again.  “When you’re old enough for it, little lady.”  Like they’re old friends, like she’s a protective neighbor or something.  (She’s already intending to tell the others not to make too many raunchy jokes when she has the chance; she doesn’t mind teenagers hanging around, she’d rather they embrace what they’re going to embrace here in the safety of a dance studio than in some other worse place, but she isn’t going to make it more scandalous than it has to be.)

“You good?” Margaery whispers.  “Don’t have anywhere to be for a while?”

“No,” Sansa confirms.  “I mean, I made sure to finish all my homework this afternoon, I’m all right for it.”

She’s still looking just slightly out of her element, though, so Margaery reaches for her hand and gives it a quick squeeze.  Sansa smiles back, seeming to relax.

“Where _have_ my manners gone?” the redheaded woman laughs suddenly, turning back to them.  “Ros Carmody, at your service.”

“I’m Margaery, this is Sansa,” Margaery introduces.

“Margaery and Sansa, how lovely,” Ros coos.  She's got a startlingly friendly smile in person, not at all like the showy come-hither grins that get flashed on stage.

“Newbies?” a voice from behind them asks, and Margaery is rather delighted to realize it came from her dark-haired belly dancer.

“Just fans,” Ros corrects.  “Ballerinas both.  Margaery, Sansa, this is Arianne.  She’s our _actual_ newest addition.”

“Charmed,” Arianne murmurs, reaching to shake Margaery’s hand.

“Likewise,” Margaery returns, grinning a very distinct grin.

“Yes,” Sansa echoes faintly, watching her friend with new curiosity.


	3. you are so good, you are so bad, you have experienced things I never have

“Margaery?” Sansa says warily, shutting her history book.  “I, uhm, just got a text from your brother.”

“Oh?” Margaery murmurs (as if she hadn’t expected this, which she sort of had).  “Whatever about?”

“The holiday party next weekend, the fancy one at King’s Landing?” Sansa replies, brows furrowed.  This is embarrassingly uncharted territory for her.  “He said he wants to take me, is it… I mean, you’d know better than anyone, probably, does he mean as a date?”

King’s Landing isn’t _quite_ a gentleman’s club in the traditional sense, some elite boys’ only social gathering place, given that it hosts its fair share of co-ed events for the well-to-do, but it’s much more that than anything else; the fathers of most every family that’s anything at all in their corner of the city all belong, though some, like Sansa’s father Ned, do so really only in name.

Margaery sighs.  “Can I see?” she asks, reaching for Sansa’s phone.  She reads the message over, _tsk_ ing and frowning and thinking that of course Loras would muddle this whole thing with attempted gallantry.

“What’s the matter?” Sansa asks.  “Does he – is it not a date?  Am I just… I’m a fool, aren’t I?”

“No, no, lovely girl,” Margaery soothes, frowning and laying a hand on Sansa’s.  “If anyone’s the fool here, it’s my brother.  I told him he ought to just let me explain this to start.”

Sansa’s face falls.  “It’s – it’s very sweet of you to tell him he ought to ask me,” she mutters, jumping to the logical conclusion.  She can’t bring herself to add ‘because you noticed I was taken with him,’ but they both understand it in that moment (Sansa is all the more horrified, Margaery feels horrible for confusing the issue).  “But I’ll be all right.  I mean, my family is going anyway, and I could just – I don’t know, dance with the Baratheon boy or something, it won’t be too bad.”

“Joffrey?  I beg you, don’t waste time even thinking that boy’s name,” Margaery exclaims, horrified.  (Considering the way Sansa’s become accustomed to taking Margaery’s advice regarding people wholeheartedly, she knows she won’t bother; it was mostly her sparked self-loathing that caused her to say it, anyway.)  “Hear me out about Loras, it’s not as simple as all that.”

“But if he doesn’t like me,” Sansa begins.

“Loras likes you very much,” Margaery promises.  “Just… only as a friend.  As he only likes all girls.”

It takes a moment for Sansa to process this, her expression going from devastated to mortified (at her own stupidity, mostly) in a matter of seconds.  “Oh,” she whispers.  “He’s… oh.”

It does explain a few things.  She feels incredibly naïve for not figuring it out, especially with the fact of Margaery’s openly-expressed queerness having – well, taught her more about such things than she’d picked up in her sheltered country-home childhood, but it makes sense.

“See, he and I have a deal,” Margaery continues.  “Parties like this one, for example, well, neither of us can really bring the dates we’d want to.  Usually I go with his boyfriend and he takes my girlfriend, but I’m single as can be right now, so –”

“What about that belly dancer?” Sansa asks.  “Arianne?  I thought you’d gone out with her a couple of times.”

Margaery actually blushes at that (Sansa didn’t entirely think that possible).  “You know how you can go on dates with someone but not be _dating_ them?”

“I suppose,” Sansa says, though mostly she knows from movies and books.

“Anyway, I’m going with Renly,” Margaery explains.

“ _Oh!_ ” Sansa interrupts, more pieces of the puzzle falling into place for her.

Margaery smiles patiently before she continues.  “It’s kind of for his sake, poor dear.  I think his family _suspects_ , but he’d rather maintain the illusion than deal with all hell breaking loose on account of their learning the truth,” she sighs, wrinkling her nose.  “To each their own, I would never force someone out if they didn’t feel comfortable being.  So I’ll be helping him out like always, and anyway, I thought you might want to decorate Loras’ arm for the night, finish our merry quartet?”

“Of course!” Sansa exclaims, a little too quickly.  She’s a _little_ disappointed that she hadn’t caught her cool friend’s cool older brother’s eye like some teenage soap opera, but she isn’t really upset, all things considered.  “I’d like that very much, thank you for thinking of me.”

“Thank _you_ for understanding,” Margaery returns.  “It’s an unconventional arrangement, perhaps, but it’ll be fun, I’m sure of it.”

 

* * *

  

“Hi, Sansa,” her little brother Rickon says sweetly, fixing his cute and/or unnerving stare on her as she walks through the door.

“Was that Loras who dropped you off?” Sansa’s mother Catelyn asks, marking her place in the novel she’s reading.  None of the other Starks have formally met him, but between at-a-glance appearances and the various ballet stories Sansa and Margaery have shared they all more than know _of_ him.  “You should tell Margaery to bring him by some time, it feels odd not knowing the boy who’s suddenly become my daughter’s chauffeur.”

It’s as good a time as any.

“Actually,” Sansa begins, perching on the arm of the couch.  “You know the party at King’s Landing?”

“I’m going to have to drag your father, I’m afraid,” Catelyn smirks.

“Well, I know we were just going to go as a family, or whatever, but Loras sort of… asked me to go with him,” Sansa says hesitantly.  She’s not going to get into the details – like Margaery said, it’s awful to out someone without their permission, and explaining things would mean explaining that, which she doesn’t want to do.

Catelyn raises an eyebrow.  “Isn’t he much older than you?”

“Only four years,” Sansa defends quickly.  “Dad’s got more years than that on you, doesn’t he?  Besides, he’s Margaery’s brother and we’re doubling, and it’s perfectly safe, I promise!”

“Who’s she going with, then?” Catelyn asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“Uhm, Renly Baratheon?” Sansa hesitates (though Margaery opened up about her sexuality to Sansa less than a week after they met, she’s not overtly out to the rest of the Starks, so if anything Catelyn just looks puzzled over the idea of one of Sansa’s friends dating one of Sansa’s father’s friends’ admittedly much younger brother).  “It’s not – it’s nothing serious, and, and I promise it’s the same with Loras and I, and please?  It’s not as if you and Dad won’t be on the other side of the room the whole time.  It’s the single safest first date _ever_.”

Strictly speaking, of course, it’s not a proper date, but Margaery promised it would have all of the trappings of one, so Sansa is considering it good practice for whenever the real thing should happen.

“Why is Mum making faces?” Arya asks, coming down the stairs, Robb and his friend Theon barreling after her.

“Sansa has a date,” Rickon says solemnly.  “With a boy.”

“Who?” Arya demands, getting right in Sansa’s face.  “If he messes with you, I’ll punch him.”

“Arya,” Catelyn cautions, though she looks amused.  (Her daughters don’t always get on perfectly, but though she knows she shouldn’t encourage it, she knows that threatening harm to those who’d hurt her sister is how her younger shows affection.)

“Loras,” Sansa shrugs, nonplussed.

“Loras Tyrell?  Isn’t he… you know,” Theon not-quite-asks, looking slightly puzzled (though, to his credit, it seems more out of genuine curiosity than any particular judgment).

“Older than her?  Yes,” Robb says, frowning.  Being the oldest brother, it’s his job to be overprotective, and besides that, he apparently hasn’t thought about the alternative ending to that sentence.

“He’s Margaery’s _brother_ , she’s the one who set us up!” Sansa exclaims.  “Do you think if it was going to be weird she’s have done that?”

Despite her being around the Stark house frequently of late and despite them actually being in the same year at school, Robb doesn’t know Margaery very well at all, so he just shrugs, and Theon, to whom the same contingencies apply somewhat, suggests, “Maybe she likes making her brother feel awkward.”

Sansa rolls her eyes.  “Even if that was true, which it’s not, it’d be making me feel awkward, which she wouldn’t, _and_ we’re doubling with her and Renly, so it’d be awkward for her too.”

“Renly Baratheon?” Robb asks, a bit dazed with this information.  “Dad’s friend Robert’s _brother_ Renly?  He’s –”

“In uni,” Sansa supplies patiently.  “And he’s known Margaery forever, and we’re both big girls and we can handle ourselves.”

“I don’t think any of us are doubting that, dear,” Catelyn chimes in.  “This is just – this is your first date, of course we’re going to worry.  It’s a fairly big deal.”

“She’s getting a ride to a party she’d be going to anyway with someone else and sitting at a different table,” Arya points out, shaking her head and starting to head for the kitchen. “It’s not that big of a deal at all.”

Before anyone can think anything of it, Sansa springs up to hug her sister, giggling.  “Thank you,” she says, though she suspects Arya’s ambivalence is mostly to do with the fact that she just doesn’t like dating talk.

Arya pulls a face, squirming but not with any particular effort to get away (she minds hugs less than she pretends).  “Don’t mention it.”


	4. you can do anything that you want, world is an oyster, don't disappoint us

“Are you having a nice time?” Margaery asks in a whisper.  The boys have gone for punch, so she and Sansa are holding court at their little table by themselves.

“The nicest,” Sansa promises.  Really, everything that could be perfect about tonight has been, except the part where it’s not a real date.  And even that is oddly nice, in a low-stress kind of way.  There are no real worries.

Before the conversation can go any further, they’re joined by Arya and, oddly enough, Myrcella Baratheon.  They’re the proverbial night and day – Arya with hair stubbornly untamed even despite Sansa’s earlier efforts and a stubbornly informal black and white dress, Myrcella all ringlets and pink lace like should be on a doll – and honestly, it surprises Sansa to see them keeping company.  Arya usually prefers boys as friends, boys or her dog or no one.

“Hello, Arya, hello, Myrcella,” Margaery says warmly.

Myrcella smiles wanly.  “Hi, Margaery,” she says, nodding a courteous hello to Sansa as well.  “We were wondering if maybe –”

“Save us,” Arya cuts in.

“From what?” Sansa asks disbelievingly.

“ _Dancing_ ,” Arya says with a shudder.

“Dancing’s not so bad,” Margaery laughs.  She does know her friend’s sister, of course, but not that well; rebelliousness she understands, but neither she nor Sansa are the ones to complain to about dancing, really.

“Have you seen the boys we have to dance with?” Myrcella rolls her eyes.  The younger ones, she means.  “Not great choices, especially the ones my mom would have me make friends with.”

“I know he’s a bit younger, but you could always ask Bran for a spin?” Sansa suggests carefully.

“Tried it,” Arya sighs.  “He’s being all shy about his chair, I didn’t want to pester.”

This doesn’t surprise Sansa; their little brother can be plenty gregarious with those he knows, but it’s been hard enough getting him to come to big group things like this in the couple of years since his accident, never mind getting him to participate.

“Isn’t the Martell boy near your age?” Margaery asks, calculatedly disinterested.

“Trys?” Myrcella echoes.  “Yeah, but I haven’t seen him in hours.”

“Exceptions, but most of them are awful,” Arya concludes.

“Only one solution, then,” Margaery declares.

“Run and hide in the loo until it goes away?” Arya says hopefully.

“Dance with each other,” Margaery corrects.

Arya and Myrcella wrinkle their noses.  “We’re both girls,” Myrcella says, like it’s obvious what that means.

“So?” Margaery blinks.  “Nowhere is it written that only boys can lead and all girls have to follow.”

Another exchange of glances between the younger girls (they seem to have made an alliance) before Arya sets her jaw and holds out her hand.  “C’mon, Cella,” she says decisively.  “I’ll lead.  It’ll piss your mum off, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Myrcella agrees, smirking wickedly.

They’re halfway to the dance floor, whispering to each other, when Arya turns back.  “How do you lead?” she asks sheepishly.

Margaery chuckles like she knew this was coming, which of course she did, and before Sansa can register anything, she’s getting pulled toward the floor as well.  “If all you’re doing is generic slow-dancing,” Margaery begins, nodding to the others in the crowd – most of them parent-aged, though there are a few ambitious young people too – and shrugging, “Just put your arms like _so_ –” She arranges hers around Sansa, and Arya mimics – “And Myrcella, yours go like _so_ –” Sansa lets hers find their place, Myrcella does the same – “And you sway, mostly.  Nothing particularly fancy.”

The two pairs of girls do just that for a minute, Arya and Myrcella both giggling self-consciously, until Margaery lifts one of Sansa’s hands and nudges her into a twirl.  Sansa’s skirt fans out around her, her hair flies; the younger girls stop moving altogether to stare.

“Teach us that,” Myrcella commands.  (She hasn’t been a mommy’s girl since she was a child, at least in the strictest sense, but she did inherit a certain level of her mother’s imperiousness.)

So they do.

The song playing turns to something faster, and the instruction gets more ambitious; it’s no one style, sort of a greatest hits of the lot of them, but it suits everyone involved well enough.  Arya and Myrcella aren’t feeling daring enough to go for some of the stunts the older girls pull off, but it amuses them to try a few.

(Also amusing are their mothers’ reactions: Catelyn seems mostly pleased that Arya’s playing nice, while Cersei, as predicted, looks like she wishes she could have influenced her daughter into other company altogether.)

When that song ends, all four of the girls burst out laughing delightedly, breathlessly.  Sansa rests a hand on Margaery’s shoulder to steady herself after all those twirls and Margaery pulls her close.

“Thanks for the dances, sweets,” she murmurs.

But before Sansa can respond, she feels a tap on her shoulder and turns instinctively to answer it.  There stand Loras and Renly, both looking all too amused.

“Not that you’re not lovely to watch,” Loras smirks, “But I believe it’s custom for dates to dance with each other, too.”

Sansa flushes (even more than she was already).  “Of course,” she says, taking his outstretched hand.

“My lady,” Renly says, bowing courteously to Margaery.

“Oh, I’m exhausted,” she defers.  “Find me in a song or two, and may I suggest until then that you dance with your sweet niece here?”

Said niece is just beaming (probably because of his relative youth, Renly has always been the fun uncle).  She hesitates before joining him, though, frowning at Arya.  Even if it is one’s uncle, it’s not good form to blow friends off for a guy (and Myrcella is very conscious of form).

“Don’t worry,” Arya says, rolling her eyes.  “I’m just going to go bother Jon or something.”  With a little smirk mostly for Sansa’s sake – their cousin is famously antisocial in large groups like this – she flits off.

The new pairs get to dancing, then, Renly very gamely humoring Myrcella’s urge to practice her newly-learned steps, Loras leading Sansa with the nonchalance often found in a practiced dancer.

“Do you have a background in ballroom?” he asks her.

“Not really,” Sansa shrugs.  “I learned some of it from my mother when I was young, but I’ve never had proper training.”

“You’ve got a natural way with it, then,” he nods.

And she just grins, murmuring thanks.  As he spins her, she catches sight of Margaery at their table, leaning forward on one hand and chatting with a recently appeared Arianne.

She points this out, and Loras just chuckles.  “Funny, how oblivious most people are,” he says. “Only seeing what they want to see.”

“What do you mean?” Sansa asks.

“I mean, _that_ ,” Loras declares.  “My sister is about throwing herself at the Martell girl, but most of the people here wouldn’t even consider that a possibility, so they don’t notice at all.”

Sansa considers this a moment.  She has to admit to herself that it would have evaded her once upon a time; context, she muses, really does matter.

To Loras she says, “I suppose people often prefer their fantasies to what’s really in front of them.”

“I suppose so,” he agrees.  (This is the closest either of them will ever come to acknowledging her short-lived crush, and it’s not really so close at all.)  “You’re quite wise, Sansa Stark.”

“I’m not, not really,” she replies.

He gives her a look.  “Don’t doubt yourself like that,” he says plainly, reaching to tap her on the nose.  Instead of pressing the matter, though, he spins her again, lifting her at the waist like in a pas de deux.  “Smile,” he adds, “We’re being watched.

Sansa raises an eyebrow, but she does as told.  “By who?” she asks.

“My gran.”

“The one who used to…?”

“The very same.”  It’s clear there’s no coincidence about how he’s suddenly upped the difficulty on the steps they’re doing.  “She likes to know everyone we pass time with, and it goes double for who we dance with.”

“Oh,” she says, laughing nervously.

“Don’t worry,” he shrugs.  “My guess is she’s auditioning you for my next duet partner, but she hasn’t made a face, I bet you’re in the clear.”

“Oh,” she says again.

“Would you like that?” he asks, quite sincerely.  “You’ve been a joy to dance with, I think we could work something lovely out.”

In a way, this is more exciting to her than the prospect of a date with him had been.  “Only if you really mean it,” Sansa says.

“Of course I do.”

 

* * *

 

“ _So_ ,” Margaery coos.  “How was your very first date?”

She’s sitting behind Sansa, idly plaiting her slightly-damp hair; they went back to Sansa’s after the party, took showers and made cocoa before retreating into her bedroom.  Her family had left before they all did, Catelyn claiming it was far past little Rickon’s bedtime so her husband (and her younger daughter, and her other young son, and her nephew) could exit gracefully, so _retreating_ is the appropriate word for it: they’d thought to put some cookies in the oven and lounge around on the barstools at the counter in their bathrobes, but the kitchen had been overrun.

Sansa loves her family very much (and really, Margaery’s gotten quite fond of them) but sometimes she just needs to be alone.  Or mostly alone, anyway.

“Don’t be like that,” Sansa chides, laughing.  “You know perfectly well it wasn’t really.”

“But it sure looked like one,” Margaery counters.  “My brother made good on his promises to take you through all the sweet formalities?”

“He did,” Sansa agrees.  They’d gotten ready here, too, and the boys had come round at a respectable hour, toting roses even: one apiece, Margaery’s yellow, Sansa’s red.  (They’re now placed in a vase atop Sansa’s dresser for safekeeping.)  “He said we should pair off for a routine some time.”

Margaery grins, wrapping arms around the younger girl’s shoulders affectionately.  “Sansa, that’s great,” she enthuses.  “Serious people, performance school people, come to see Loras.  Just think of the attention you might get!”

“Oh, I – that’s not really – you think so?” Sansa asks in a rush.

“It could happen,” Margaery agrees.  “You two did make a pretty pair on the dance floor.”

Sansa shrugs sheepishly.  “I suppose,” she says.  “But enough about me, I want to hear what _you_ were up to.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Margaery replies loftily.

“There was a good half-hour there where you were nowhere to be seen,” Sansa points out.  “And nor was Arianne Martell.”

“Funny coincidence,” Margaery says.

“Oh, stop it!” Sansa exclaims, giggling.  “I don’t need to hear all the _details_ –” The sexy ones, she means, not that Margaery would dream of sharing sexy details about anything with Sansa – “But I just want to know, am I right in assuming you two were…?”

“We weren’t, well, _you know_ ,” Margaery admits, trying not to giggle.  “But you know how you can get… close to that, without actually…?”

Yet another thing that Sansa only really knows from movies (and Margaery, she supposes) but still, she nods.

“Well,” Margaery continues, her eyes glinting.  “That.”

“I’m glad,” Sansa declares, after a moment raising an eyebrow and adding, “Does this mean you’re properly dating now?”

It’s hard for Margaery not to laugh – it’s a funny question, but she doesn’t want to hurt her friend’s feelings.  Finally, she settles for explaining, “It’s a touch more complicated than that.  We’re young, we’re having fun, I don’t know that it’s got to be more than that just now.”

“Oh,” Sansa says.  (She’s been good at adapting her fairytales to Margaery’s all-female cast, but she still likes the idea of how they’re meant to end.)  “Well, if you’re happy.”

“I am,” Margaery agrees, moving to hug Sansa around the waist before springing up to unmake the second bed (it’s like a parent’s room from a television show in the fifties, the side-by-side twin beds, but it’s sweet, and it’s better than sleeping bags) and climb in.  “A successful night, all in all.”

“All in all, I agree.”


	5. it's your life and it's no one else's, sweetheart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it was not already obvious, everyone’s relative ages have been very much fudged to suit purposes.

The whole adventure starts very simply.

“Sansa,” Margaery whines (but not _whines_ , because that’s far too inelegant for her) as she sits cross-legged on Sansa’s guest bed.  “Sansa, Arianne’s finally taking me on a date, a real one.”

“Oh!”  And with that, Sansa’s flopped on her own bed, sighing wistfully with her hands over her heart.  “I’m so happy for you!  That’s great.”

Technically speaking, Margaery and Arianne have been girlfriend-and-girlfriend since the week after the party at King’s Landing (“casual,” Margaery insists, which means _not exclusive_ technically, but neither of them are currently acting on that agreed-upon openness, and as far as Sansa’s concerned that means they’re exclusive enough for it to count) but for a variety of reasons they haven’t had a chance to properly _go out_ just the two of them these last couple of months.  School stuff, family stuff, dance stuff, whatever; they’ve had a couple nights round each other’s places and a couple nights out with groups of friends (usually Arianne’s burlesque girls) but that doesn’t count.

This counts.  And it would be a lie if Sansa claimed she wasn’t living vicariously.

“It’s not so big a deal,” Margaery says, going rather more shy than usual.

“It is so,” Sansa insists.  “Where’s she taking you?  Dinner, I guess?”

“Yeah,” Margaery agrees.  “She won’t say where, though, ‘cause it’s supposed to be a surprise.”

Sansa grimaces.  “How do you know what to wear if you don’t know where you’re going?”

“I don’t know,” Margaery shrugs.  “You can help me pick out something nice and versatile if you want?  If you don’t have other plans?”

Of course Sansa doesn’t have other plans.  The boys her age are by and large just… silly.  Or they’re not her type.  Or she doesn’t know them.  Or they’re the Baratheon boy, who’s in a couple of her classes and just seems to get worse the longer she knows of him.

She’s not sore about this.  She’s totally looking forward to helping Margaery get ready for her actual date (Margaery’s had girlfriends before, but not many of them have been at the actual-date stage, so she’s nervous and it’s sort of sweet) and she’d rather wait for her own good opportunity than force it.

 

* * *

 

Then one night at dinner, Bran declares that he’s got a date too.

“Not really,” he demurs, hardly looking up from his plate.  “I mean, we’re not _dating_ , but I asked her to go out and she said yeah, why not?  I think it’s mostly a pity thing, though.”

“Who’s this?” Ned asks.  He’s a good dad, all of his kids would agree, but sometimes he misses these obvious details of their adolescent love lives and all that.

Well, it’s obvious insofar as Bran really only feels comfortable around a couple of girls that he’s not related to, but it’s not like he’s mentioned any of this to anyone except Osha, his not-nanny-because-nannies-are-for-babies, but she sort of figured it out on her own.

“Meera Reed,” Bran says sheepishly.

“Aw!” Sansa exclaims.  “That’s so cute.”

“Why’s it pity?” Robb asks in his jovial big brother way.

“Well, I think she mostly just said yes ‘cause she feels like she’s supposed to,” Bran explains.  “Since I’m her little brother’s best friend and, well, it’s not like anybody else is going to.”

“Stop it,” Catelyn says sternly.  She still doesn’t have the best understanding of most of her children’s friends, but she refuses to let her children think that way about themselves, and she’s especially (though not overly, she hopes) careful with Bran.  “I don’t know if Meera Reed has a crush on you, but I know that if she didn’t like you in some way she wouldn’t have agreed to let you take her out.”

Of course, “take her out” is a bit of an exaggeration, as Osha let her know: the kids will get to have their own private grown-up table, but Osha’s driving them and will be seated nearby (but tactfully far enough away that it’s not intrusive).

“Yeah,” Arya agrees.  She probably knows Meera best after Bran, she feels licensed to say.  “It’ll be fine.”

“I think it’ll be sweet,” Sansa coos.

Bran looks his two sisters over.  Arya’s reassurance is more genuine, probably, but Sansa’s the one of them whose advice he needs more, so he asks her, “I can count on you to help me plan it?”

“Of course,” Sansa promises.

 

* * *

 

Then Arya comes home from school one day – late, because she had detention _again_ – and she’s talking about some boy she met.

“He’s called Gendry,” she says, hopping over the back of the sofa to sit next to Sansa and steal some of the popcorn she’s made (Sansa turns down the volume and figures she won’t be paying attention to whatever dress-buying show was on anymore, but she’s fine with it, the times when her wanting-to-be-around-Arya moods and Arya’s wanting-to-be-around- _her_ moods coincide are rare enough that she takes advantage of them).  “And anyway he’s a year above you but do you know him?”

Sansa shakes her head.  “Can’t say I do,” she says, though honestly she tends not to pay attention to the sorts of boys who wind up in detention.

“Not a surprise, I guess,” Arya shrugs amiably.  “He was in detention for skipping class, I guess he does that a lot.”

“I see,” Sansa says patiently.  “Is he nice?”

“He’s not a prat, if that’s what you mean,” Arya says.  “Down-to-earth.  And he’s into swords and stuff, too.”  That’s been Arya’s preoccupation for the last couple of years, anything from fencing to the medieval-style reenactment kind, and given the opportunity she’ll talk anyone’s ear off about it, so having found someone who shares her passion is clearly a positive thing.

“I see,” Sansa repeats, raising an eyebrow.  “So when is he taking you out, then?”

“ _Ew_ ,” Arya shouts.  “Don’t be gross, Sansa.”

“Well, you clearly like him,” Sansa says.

“Yeah, he’s interesting and I think we could be good friends,” Arya rolls her eyes.  “But I don’t wanna _date_ him.  That’s stupid.”

Sansa’s not really buying it, but she won’t press.

 

* * *

 

“Sansa,” Bran call from down the hall on the big night.

“Just a second,” Sansa tells Margaery, frowning apologetically.  Of course Margaery doesn’t mind sharing the attention, though.  It’s for a good cause.

When Sansa lets herself into Bran’s room, she’s both surprised and not to see Rickon and Arya cross-legged on the bed and all three of their wolves lying about on the floor.  Amongst what appears to be the contents of Bran’s closet.

“Seven hells,” Sansa exclaims, laughing.  “I guess you’re having a wardrobe crisis?”

“He’s obsessing,” Arya puts in.

“Don’t make fun,” Bran sighs.  “I just don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard, but I don’t want to look like I don’t care.”

“It’s just dinner with Meera,” Rickon points out.  “She and Jojen come over for dinner all the time.”

“Yeah, stupid,” Arya rolls her eyes.  “Meera _and Jojen_.  It’s different since it’s just Meera, and it’s different ‘cause Bran called it a date or whatever.  I guess.”  She looks about to say something more, but her phone buzzes and she turns her attention to it.

And Sansa groans.  “You’re not stupid, Rickon,” she says sweetly.  “This is just big kid stuff.”

“Yeah, that’s better,” Arya mutters, not looking up.  “Patronize him.”

“Shut up,” Sansa retorts before moving back to the problem at hand.  “What did Mom tell you to do?”

She knows their mother offered advice, but given that Catelyn and Ned have since gone off on a cutesy, lovey date of their own she’s not still around to ask things of.

“Button-up and nice pants,” Bran says.

“That’s a good start,” Sansa agrees.  “You don’t want to do a tie or a suit jacket or anything, that’d be too much, but one of your nicer shirts.  The green one?”  She reaches for said shirt and hands it to her little brother with a smile.

The door swings open again, this time revealing Robb and Jon and Theon all similarly done up – _they’ve_ been invited to a mixer that the Manderly sisters are hosting. “How’s it going in here?” Robb asks.

“Sansa’s trying to help,” Bran explains.  “Arya and Rickon aren’t, they’re being pains.”  His wolf Summer howls in agreement.

Rickon pouts, enough that Jon leans over to ruffle his hair.  “I’m sure Sansa’s the best one to ask about this, anyway,” he assures.  Not that he’s particularly close with her, but this is definitely her area and he knows that.

“Probably,” Bran agrees.  “Okay, everyone get out, I need to get dressed.”

They oblige, just glad he’s finally made up his mind, and the older boys follow Sansa back to her room.  “You sure you don’t want to come to the party with us?” Theon asks her. 

“And tag along playing awkward kid sister?  No,” Sansa replies haughtily.

“We could say you’re my date,” Theon offers with a smirk.

“Theon Greyjoy, stop hitting on her,” Margaery exclaims through the door.

He hangs his head in a pretense of shame and Robb and Jon just laugh.  “Your effort to atone is appreciated, at least,” Robb says.

“But it’s transparent,” Jon finishes.

Leaving the boys bickering, Sansa steps back into her room.  “Sorry,” she tells Margaery. “Family stuff, you know.”

“Yeah,” Margaery agrees.  It’s different for her, since all of her brothers are older than her, but she gets it.  “I really need your advice, though.”

“Have at,” Sansa declares, flopping on her bed.

“Gold or pink?” Margaery asks, holding up two dresses.

“Gold,” Sansa says immediately.  “It looks perfect on you.  And the heels that go with.”

“Of course,” Margaery giggles.  “It’s not too much?”

“Too much what?” Sansa asks.

“I don’t know,” Margaery frowns suddenly as she steps into the dress.  “Too much, like… it’s not coming on too strong?”

“Too strong for what?” Sansa echoes.  Maybe it’s that she genuinely doesn’t get this stuff or maybe it’s just that she doesn’t see how that’s so.  “You’re girlfriends, how could you?  It’s not like you’re showing up with a ring or something.”

Margaery’s eyes go wide with horror.  “Oh, ew,” she shrieks, laughing.  “Don’t be ridiculous.  Zip me?”

Sansa steps forward to do just that, then spins Margaery around for a good look.  “Well, I think she’s gonna be totally impressed,” she declares.  “You’d do any girlfriend proud.”

“Aw, sweetling,” Margaery coos, giving Sansa a hug.  “You’re too nice.”  She goes to slip her shoes on, grabs her sweater, primps just the slightest bit.  “All good?”

“Great,” Sansa assures.  “Now.  Out of here and onto your date.  We can gossip about it tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

“Are the boys gone by now?” Sansa asks by way of greeting when she heads down to the kitchen and sees Arya rummaging around in the fridge.

“Yeah,” Arya shrugs, rearranging things in the noisiest way she probably could.  “Jon looked pretty horrified at the whole thing, and I don’t blame him.  Having to be Theon’s wingman would suck.”

Sansa leans against the counter.  “Yeah, you’re probably right,” she agrees.  “But he and Robb could still wind up pulling, too, yeah?”

“This is Jon we’re talking about, yeah?” Arya asks in disbelief.  “You think he really cares?”

“Not really,” Sansa admits.  “Still, though, they could have fun?”

“I guess,” Arya sighs.  “Margaery get on her way okay?”

“Yeah,” Sansa says.  “I bet they’re gonna have a great time.”

Arya raises an eyebrow at the decidedly wistful look on her sister’s face, but she chalks it up to romanticism.  That’s always been a trait of Sansa’s.  Then there’s a pause where it looks like she’s trying to decide if this is a good idea to ask, then a moment of very clear _why not?_   “Look, if everyone else is out being lame and flirty, you wanna make cookies and watch a movie or something?”

Well, that’s a rare offer indeed.  “You sure you’re not just asking ‘cause you don’t wanna screw up the cookies if you make them without my help?” Sansa replies.

“I’m sure,” Arya rolls her eyes.  “So?”

“White chocolate chip and not one of your action films, and you’ve got a deal,” Sansa declares.

She’s young. She still has time for romance stories of her own, she can enjoy everyone else’s in the meantime.


	6. and I'm singing "oh oh" on a Friday night and I hope everything's gonna be alright

“ _Margaery_ ,” Sansa hisses, tugging on the far-too-short skirt of her black dress.  “I shouldn’t  _be_ here, this is – this is a  _grown-up party_.”

“You’re grown,” Margaery shrugs.  She, Sansa notices, isn’t the slightest bit fidgety, though her costume is even barer than Sansa’s (it’s just a bra and a slip and high heels).  She’s owning it perfectly.

“Not that grown,” Sansa mumbles.  “There’s  _alcohol_ here.  Honestly!”

“Nobody’s going to make you drink any,” Margaery promises, her expression suddenly serious.  “Come on, it’s gonna be okay.  We just need to find the girls and it’ll all be okay.”

As if just saying that was a summons, this gorgeous blonde in a gold bikini appears behind Margaery and taps her on the shoulder.  “Hell _ooo_ , sweetling,” she coos, flashing the brightest grin.

“ _Ty_!” Margaery shouts, whirling around to give the girl a giant hug.  “Are the others anywhere to be found?”

“If they haven’t decided to be outrageous deadbeats,” the girl says, affecting a pout before turning her attention to Sansa.  Sansa, in turn, is  _pretty_ sure she’s being appraised, considering the look she’s given.  “So  _this_ must be our baby Magenta.”

“Right!” Margaery shouts, smacking her palm against her forehead.  “Tyene, Sansa.  Sansa, Tyene.  She’s one of Arianne’s cousins.”  She leans forward with a conspiratorial whisper.  “Don’t leave your drink unattended around her.  She’s been known to slip things in.”

“You make it sound like I  _poison_  people,” Tyene exclaims, her expression ricocheting to perfectly offended.  “I just don’t like to see people not having as much  _fun_ as they ought, and if a little liquor might help…”

“Not with Sansa,” Margaery says very firmly.  “I promised both her parents and her that I’d keep her safe tonight.”

“I’ll make sure of it,” another girl – this one decidedly more androgynous with her alto voice and tattered suit – announces, sidling up beside them and slinging an arm over Sansa’s shoulder.  “I know none of the rest of you can be trusted, to say nothing of Ella’s unknown multitudes of drama department friends, so I’ll make her my responsibility.  Besides.”  She flashes a smile, and then it’s  _her_ turn to give Sansa the once-over, more subtly this time.  “It makes sense.”

“Sansa, Obara, Obara, Sansa,” Margaery introduces.  “Your Riff-Raff for the evening.”  She drops her voice, though all of them can still hear.  “I figured you’d be safest with her, she’s the least party-wild of the bunch.”

“She’s also the oldest of us,” Tyene puts in, rolling her eyes.  “And therefore the most  _reasonable_.  And if any assholes try to hit on you, she’ll beat them up.”

“Oh,” Sansa exclaims, going a bit pink as she looks the other girl – who’s now moved to holding her about the waist rather possessively (but that makes sense, doesn’t it, given their respective costumes) – in the eye.  “Thank you in advance, then?”

“No need to thank, sweetling,” Obara says in a tone that Sansa figures to be her approximation of affectionate (still gruffer than most people’s affectionate, but different than the one she’d been using to scold the others).  “I know how debauched my sisters and cousin can get.”

“Oh, like you’re so perfect,” Tyene scoffs, tossing hair over her expertly bronzed shoulder.

“I know how they can get,” Obara starts over, “and so if they insist on dragging a baby – no offense meant – to partake with them, I’ll chaperone as needed.”

“How noble,” Arianne croons, coming up beside Margaery and wrapping arms around her waist.  She, Sansa notices, is in white underwear similar to Margaery’s, though her ensemble is a tank top and panties, plus loafers and comically square glasses, and her hair is fixed into the primmest braids that could be imagined.  To Sansa she says, “You pull that off well.  I’m pleasantly surprised.”

“I still think Margaery should have been Magenta and Sansa Janet,” Tyene cuts in airily.  “It’s obvious which of them is more of a virgin.”

“ _Tyene_ ,” Obara exclaims, glaring ominously.

“No offense meant,” Tyene shrugs.  “But Sansa, you’re younger and sweeter.”

“But Sansa’s a ginger and Margaery’s a brunette,” Arianne defends.  “’Sides, Janet may be the virgin but at least Magenta’s not flaunting her midriff.”

Sansa flushes, because that’s a fair point, but what she says is, “And this way, the two of you can be paired off.  Brad and Janet.”

“Brandy and Janet,” Arianne corrects with a smirk, “but yeah.”

“Whose idea  _was_ this whole…”

“Roxy Horror,” Tyene interjects with a smirk, striking a pose.

“This whole  _Roxy Horror_ thing anyway?” Sansa asks, because she hadn’t really been told a lot more than that she’d be Magenta by virtue of her hair and there’d be a whole group, comprised aside from her and Margaery by Arianne and her cousins.

“Our dad’s, actually,” announces presumably yet another Sand sister, skipping up and striking a pose.  “You’re Sansa?  Cute.”

“Yes, ah – thank you,” Sansa mumbles, fidgeting with her (very teased and curled) hair.  “You’re…”

“Nym,” said girl announces.  “Nymeria, technically.”  She does a quick spin to let Sansa (who’s currently resisting the urge to exclaim “that’s my sister’s dog’s name too!” because that would be ridiculous) and Margaery see her outfit – sequined short-shorts and an even more sequined bustier – before reaching out to adjust the doily pinned to Sansa’s head.  Sansa, for her part, doesn’t squirm at the unexpected contact, just blushes even harder.

Maybe it’s because she’s is stuck on one key element.  “Your  _dad_?” she asks, sounding probably hopelessly naïve and incredulous.

“He knows we like to live dangerously,” Nym smirks, “and once he found out that Ella’d invited us to a musicals-themed party, well…”

“You’ve heard stories of the famous Oberyn,” Margaery points out.

“I know, I just can’t wrap my head around that anyone’s dad would suggest going as…”

“A situationally if not individually lesbian version of a cult classic film about sex and lewdness?” Nym smirks.  “Well, that’s because most people’s dads are hopelessly square.”

“I know mine is,” Margaery puts in.

“And mine,” Arianne agrees.

Sansa thinks for a minute.  “My dad’s idea of a group Halloween costume is  _Scooby-Doo_ ,” she admits.  “Literally.  When we were kids we did that.  It was pretty goofy.”

“It sounds cute,” Margaery exclaims, nudging the younger girl’s shoulder.  “I wanna see pictures.”

All of the others are smirking, not exactly rolling their eyes but not exactly participating in the conversation at the same level.  Tyene especially looks like she knows something they don’t know.

“Where’s Ella?” Obara asks, glancing around the room at the growing crowd, mostly comprised of strangers.  “It’s their damn university’s party, they should be suffering through it with the rest of us.”

“Upstairs, putting the finishing touches,” Nym declares.  “Don’t be impatient.”

“I’d never,” Obara retorts, blowing a lock of hair out of her eyes.

“You’re just a spoilsport,” Tyene singsongs.  “Enjoy yourself!  Get to know our new friend.  Don’t watch the clock like usual.”

“I’m not –”

And suddenly a figure appears at the top of the stairs, dark red lips smiling a surprisingly secret little smile. 

“ _Ella_ ,” all of the sisters exclaim, grinning.  The newcomer hurries down, perfectly steady despite four-inch heels, and bumps hips with Nym.

“You must be Sarella,” Sansa says, starting to flutter with nerves.  “Should I call you Ella?”

“Ella is fine.  Sarella is fine too.”  A gentle smile.  “It’s they or theirs pronouns, though.”

“Oh!”  Very resolutely, Sansa nods.  “All right.  I promise if I mess it up it’s not meant as a disregard.  I’m still… well.”

New to being asked to think about simple things like pronouns that she once took for granted.  Not troubled by doing so, but – learning.

Ella shrugs, offering another of those smiles.  “Hey, you’re trying.  That’s more than a lot of people do.”  They roll their eyes, readjusting their corset with one hand.  “Gods know I’ve had any number of people just assuming that since I present femme a lot of the time they don’t even need to ask.”

“Explain it later,” Nym suggests.  “We need to show our littlest guest around.”

 

* * *

 

Maybe an hour later, the party is in full swing.  True to her apparent reputation, Tyene has been spiking both hers and Nym’s drinks gratuitously, which has led among other things to Nym practically squeaking and insisting that if she’s Columbia she sure as fuck is gonna tap dance; she manages not to fall off of the table that she chooses for her stage given the way that the other girls are posed on the couches around it, but it’s nothing short of a miracle given the way she promptly flops down flat once she’s done.

“You’re surprisingly passable at that,” Margaery observes from in Arianne’s lap.

“Why thank you,” Nym declares, her tone grand and her body completely limp against the table.

“Get outta the way,” some strange guy grumbles.  “Some of us need places to set things down and you’re –”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence, as without looking Nym daintily lifts her right foot, tap shoe and all, and kicks him in the balls.  Of course, this makes Tyene crow delightedly.

Ella is slightly less amused, pointing out that “I’m the one who’s going to have to pick up what messes you crazies make here.”

“Are your sisters always like this?” Sansa asks Obara in a whisper.

“Usually,” Obara agrees dryly.  “It’s harmless.  Mostly.”

“These your sisters, then?” a bulky sort of boy asks of Ella, appearing around the corner and eyeing the lot of them.  He, everyone notices, put decidedly less effort into his costume, as he’s just wearing an athletic sweatshirt reading “Rydell High” and sweatpants in a matching color.

Ella, for their part, rolls their eyes.  “That’s the best costume you could come up with?”

He gives a shrug.  “I couldn’t get the costume department to lend me one of the proper uniforms,” he says.  “C’mon, introduce me.  I know you said you had a lot of sisters, but  _damn_.”

“Raise your hand if you weren’t sired by Oberyn Martell,” Ella calls out, waiting for Sansa and Margaery and Arianne to do so.  “They’re friends and a cousin.”

“Impressive,” the boy declares.

“Do I have to make him see the error of his ways?” Obara asks Ella, not even casting the boy a glance.

“I know, you’ll defend our honor,” Ella chimes in.  “Mollander’s harmless though.  He does sound and lights.”

“What are you meant to be?” Tyene asks him, voice lazy with liquor.

“From  _Grease_ ,” he says, like it’s obvious.

“The American thing?” Tyene drawls.  “Oh.  That’s very wholesome, isn’t it.”

“You’ll have to pardon them,” Ella offers.  “Not everyone in this group actually watches musicals that aren’t about sex.”

“They’re just more fun,” Tyene croons.

 

* * *

 

“I think I’ve spotted whatever she is,” Nym proclaims, sitting up straighter and nodding across the room.  “Our dads’ sister’s husband’s… something.  The crazily-blonde one?”

Arianne perks up.  “Good,” she exclaims.  “I’m glad she showed.  She got anyone with her?”

“Some leggy brunette,” Tyene chimes in.

“Ooh,” Arianne giggles, then cupping her hands around her mouth to shout, “Hey, Dany!”

Said pair of girls, who look to be about Margaery’s age, push their way through the crowd to the couches that the whole Roxy Horror gang has laid claim to, then the blonde leans to kiss Arianne on the cheek.

“Hey there,” she says as she straightens back up and seems to remagnetize to the brunette.  She herself is wearing a short white dress and thigh-high stockings; the brunette has on nothing but an overlarge men’s white button-up shirt.

“Guys,” Arianne says, “this is Dany and… Doreah?”  She phrases it like a question, though she definitely knows.  It’s the polite thing.

“Yeah,” apparently-Doreah agrees, flashing a brilliant smile.

Ella regards them curiously for a moment, then asks, “ _Spring Awakening_?”

“Yeah,” Doreah repeats, her smile actually managing to grow.  “It was easy and it suits us.”

“You’re more rock musical, too, then,” Tyene declares.

“Honestly, it’s a series of happy coincidences,” Doreah says.  “I’d just happened to stumble on it and it just happened to fit the party.” 

“But enough about us,” Dany shrugs.  “Arianne, introduce me to everyone.”

She takes a deep breath, smirking.  “Nym’s on the table, then Tyene, Ella whose friends’ party this is, Obara, Sansa, and in my lap is Margaery.”

“The famous M,” Dany exclaims, grinning.  “A pleasure.  It’s a pleasure to meet all of you.”

“Should have happened sooner,” Nym coos. 

Margaery grins, turning to nuzzle Arianne.  “I didn’t realize I was _famous_ ,” she murmurs.

“I may have mentioned you,” Arianne teases.

“Get a room,” Obara and Sansa groan in unison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Runs simultaneous to When I See Her's [chapter 20](http://archiveofourown.org/works/736351/chapters/5626322).


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